Four Letter Word, page 7
IZZY WOKE WITH A START. LAUGHTER AND LOUD VOICES drifted through her attic room, and for a disorientated moment she wasn’t sure where she was.
Patchwork comforter? Check. Whitewashed dresser and bureau? Double check. She was definitely in her room, but the boisterous sounds were utterly unfamiliar. Stretches of murmured voices punctuated by sharp outbursts of laughter. Coming up through the air vents.
Laughter? In her house?
She sat up, realizing with a start that it was significantly darker than it had been when she’d accidentally fallen asleep, and a glance at her phone told her it was almost five o’clock. Had she really slept through the day?
Izzy hurried downstairs, wondering if everyone was drunk or whether a dangerous gas leak—one of the potential dangers of an old house that Izzy’s mom always worried about—had turned her family loopy. She swung around the artichoke at the top of the stairs and double-timed it to the ground floor, but instead of empty bottles of wine scattered around the dining room table or the funky scent of propane, she found her parents and her brothers gathered in the kitchen, where Alberto sat on a barstool, telling an animated story.
“The waitress stare at me, just-a so.” He turned to Izzy’s dad, who hadn’t been home this early in weeks.
“Oh, dude,” Riley said, shaking his head. “You’re so screwed.”
Alberto nodded, blue eyes so wide they might have popped out of his head if someone had slapped him on the back at that very moment. “Sì. And she, how-a you say…” He raised his eyebrows at Izzy’s mom. “Urlare?”
“She screamed,” her mom translated with a chuckle.
“Sì, sì. She scream and-a drop whole plate of your chicken wings. Tragico.”
This snippet of the story didn’t seem particularly funny to Izzy, but the rest of her family exploded with laughter as if Alberto had been practicing his stand-up routine in their kitchen. Even Parker, who was usually reserved and always serious, slapped the counter in enjoyment. Alberto had charmed everyone, and Izzy felt a surge of jealousy at being left out.
“Sounds like a tragedy for whoever made the chicken wings,” she said from the doorway.
“Izz-ee!” Alberto cried, sliding off the barstool. He approached her with open arms as if they were old friends. His hair was still wet from a recent shower, and he’d changed into slightly more appropriate clothe—a pair of straight-leg jeans that hit at the ankle and a button-down pinstripe shirt that rose to expose his flat stomach when he raised his arms. Alberto must have gone through a recent growth spurt because his clothes clearly didn’t fit. It would explain why he was so much taller than he looked in his photos.
He clasped Izzy by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks, European style, but his eyes didn’t bore into hers the way they had the night before. The entire gesture was less intimate than the kiss he’d planted on her hand at the airport and felt almost theatrical. Over the top, like his exaggerated Italian accent. Izzy wondered if he’d realized how Plain Jane she truly was in the sober light of early evening.
“Alberto,” her mom said, once again with perfect Italian inflection, “was just telling us about his first night in San Francisco.”
“Some waitress thought he was Harry Styles and completely freaked out,” Riley said, still spasming with laughter. The situation didn’t sound inherently funny. Alberto must have been an expert storyteller.
“I’d freak out too if I thought I had Harry Styles in my section,” Parker said with a wry grin. “He’s hot.”
“Not as hot as Miguel,” Izzy’s mom said with a little nod. “Right?”
Parker stiffened at his boyfriend’s name, and the tendons in his jaw rippled beneath a tight clench. “Right,” he said. But his voice was all wrong. Had he and Miguel broken up after graduation? Is that why her brother had come home for the summer instead of staying in Pasadena?
Alberto wiped his dry cheek as if he’d been tearing up with laughter. “But the waitress, she still ask for Alberto’s number.” Then he turned away, dropping his voice. “Slut.”
“What?” Izzy said. His comment was like a record scratch, piercing the affable mood of the house. She seriously hoped his use of that word was a lost-in-translation issue, not an intentional slur.
Riley held up his hands in mock horror. “Another of mom’s dreaded four-letter words.”
“For a good reason, you turd,” Izzy said. How was she even related to him?
“Turd!” Riley pointed an accusatory finger at Izzy. “Four-letter word! Four-letter word!”
Parker elbowed him in the ribs, which was a nicer version of what Izzy wanted to do.
Alberto turned to Izzy’s mom, blue eyes wide with concern. “Did I-a say something-a wrong?”
“‘Slut’ is not an acceptable term for a woman,” Izzy’s mom said gently. “Non usare la parole ‘puttana’ per le donne.”
“Ah, no!” Alberto said, horrified. Thankfully. “Scusi, scusi.”
“What were you trying to say?”
Alberto scrunched up his mouth in thought. “La bimba.”
Izzy’s mom smiled. “I can see where you were confused. That actually translates to something more like ‘child.’”
“Ah, thank you, Elisabetta.” He met her smile for a moment before Izzy’s mom turned abruptly toward the oven.
“Shall we eat?”
Izzy’s mom removed a giant pan of chicken enchilada casserole from the warming rack of the old 1930s stove while everyone ambled into the dining room. She placed the tray on a trivet in the middle of the elongated table and immediately began directing traffic.
“I’m here by the kitchen,” she explained to Alberto, gesturing to the end seat nearest the door. “You and Izzy can sit on either side. Parker, Riley, you’re at the other end with your dad.”
“Aye, sir!” Riley said with a salute.
Their mom scowled. “And none of your gross talk about bartenders and whatever today,” she said. “I don’t want to offend our guest.”
“Um, I’m sorry,” Riley said, pantomiming confusion. “But didn’t our guest just tell a story about a sexy waitress who wanted to bone him because he looks like Harry Styles?”
“‘Bone’ is a four-letter word,” Parker said. “And so is ‘dick.’ Which you are.”
Riley was about to reply when the doorbell cut him off. Alberto started as if a gun had discharged in the dining room, pushing his chair away from the table with such force that he almost toppled backward. His chair hung in the balance on its back two legs while he grasped for the table to catch himself, his face twisted up in fear.
Izzy’s mom was equally as perturbed by the interruption. “Who’s coming around at this hour?” she asked, fidgeting with her shirt as she hurried toward the front door.
“Don’t answer!” cried Alberto. The chair thunked back into place like an exclamation mark.
Izzy raised her eyebrows. Why was he so disturbed by the doorbell?
Alberto’s eyes landed on her face, and in an instant, his affable smile was back. “It is the salesman, sì? We just pretend-a no one home?”
Izzy’s dad snorted. “There haven’t been door-to-door salesmen around since I was a kid.”
“But should we not—”
Alberto’s protest was interrupted by Izzy’s mom, who threw the door wide open. “Peyton!”
“Hi, Mrs. Bell!” From Izzy’s seat at the table, she could see her friend’s brown curls bounced up and down as she stepped into the entryway.
“We’re just sitting down to dinner,” Izzy’s mom said without asking why her daughter’s best friend had appeared unannounced for no apparent reason. “Can you stay?”
It wasn’t unusual for Peyton to join the Bell family for dinner, but normally she was already hanging out in Izzy’s room. Never in the history of their friendship had Peyton just shown up at their door at dinnertime.
“Sure!” Peyton responded with a shrug, as if that hadn’t been the plan all along. Since Izzy hadn’t responded to her texts, she must have decided to check in on her in person. “My mom’s having a girls’ night out, so it was kind of lonely at home.”
“And you can meet our new addition!” Izzy’s mom continued, leading Peyton into the dining room. “Alberto, this is Izzy’s friend Peyton.”
Izzy half expected her friend to march up to Alberto and announce that he wasn’t stealing her best friend away to Italy, or something equally as embarrassing and dramatic, but instead, Peyton paused in the doorway, eyes examining Alberto from head to toe. She ran her fingers through her long brown curls, quickly arranging them over each shoulder so they framed her face. Then, lips parted and shoulders back, she practically pranced across the room to Alberto.
“Hi,” she said in a huskier voice than normal. “I’m Peyton.”
Riley slid his chair over to make room for her. “You got a cold, Pey?”
She shot him a withering glance. “Why don’t you be a gentleman and get me a chair or something?”
Riley rolled his eyes but did as he was asked, placing a chair behind her. “Yes, your highness.”
“Alberto is from just outside of Florence,” Izzy’s mom said. Then she snapped her fingers. “What did you say the name of the town was?”
Alberto dragged his attention away from Peyton. “Rufina, Signora.”
“Call me Elizabeth.” Izzy thought her mom sounded annoyed.
“Sì, sì.” The megawatt smile was back. “Elisabetta.”
“Firenze must be beautiful,” her mom continued.
Riley shoveled a forkful of casserole into his mouth. “Isn’t that where you were supposed to go after college?”
Izzy kicked him under the table as her mom’s face hardened.
“What?” Riley sputtered, unaware that his comment might be triggering. All the men in her family were clueless.
“Nah,” her dad said, shaking his head. His eyes were fixed on his plate, avoiding everyone else at the table. “It was Rome.”
Izzy watched a shadow pass over her mom’s face. For the second time that day, she looked as if she wanted to murder her husband.
“It. Was. Florence.” Her mom’s voice was too even, too calm.
Leave it to Harry Bell to thoughtlessly bumble his way into an argument. “Oh, right. Florence, not Firenzy.”
“They’re the same city.”
“Um, my mom was going to study at the Uffizi,” Izzy said, desperately trying to diffuse the tension. “She has a passion for Italian art.”
Alberto nodded. “Bene.”
“That was a long time ago,” her mom said, her eyes still fixed on her husband. “No one’s ever taken me to Florence.”
The table fell silent. Parker, always the introvert, had retreated into himself, staring pointedly at the untouched nonvegetarian casserole on his plate as if it were the most appetizing thing on the planet. Peyton, who had straightened her bra while Alberto’s attention had been drawn away, was casting flirty smiles at him as she pretended to help herself to some food. Izzy’s dad and Riley ate lustily, as if nothing had happened. The only sounds in the dining room were the clinks of their cutlery against the Bells’ best china.
Izzy didn’t know what to do to break the spell of her mom’s darkening mood and was trying to think of some topic that might snap her out of it when she caught Alberto watching her. His eyes were soft, sympathetic, and with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, he shifted his chair to directly face Izzy’s mom.
“Elisabetta, scusi. A question.”
She waved her hand, dismissing her memories, her husband, or both. “Yes?”
“Though I no see it from-a my room…” Alberto paused, sniffing the air. “Can I smell the sea?”
“The harbor’s right down the hill,” Peyton answered before Izzy’s mom could chime in. “You can walk there.”
“It is large?”
“Molto grosso,” Izzy’s mom replied.
Alberto’s eyebrows shot up. “Many boats?”
“Many.”
“The big ones, sì?”
Riley snorted. “That’s what she said.”
“My, er, friend owns one,” Peyton said quickly. “A fishing boat.”
“Your friend?” Izzy asked. Peyton had been in love with Hunter since they were fourteen, and suddenly Peyton was referring to him as a “friend” in front of an Italian guy she just met? If that was love, maybe Izzy was justified in not wanting any part of it.
Peyton ignored her. “I could give you a tour.”
What the hell was she doing?
“I would like-a the tour,” Alberto said, lowering his chin so he stared at her from beneath his dark brows.
“I don’t think the boat is booked for tomorrow,” Peyton said, fluttering her lashes. “I could pick you up. Take you over.”
“Wonderful,” Izzy’s mom said. She stood up and began to clear dishes from the table. Even the unfinished ones. “You and Izzy can give Alberto a tour of the harbor tomorrow morning, after our first English lesson.”
Great. Now Peyton had wiggled her way into Izzy’s first day with Alberto, and as she watched the Italian ogle her friend, she already felt like a third wheel.
ALBERTO WAS PERCHED AT THE KITCHEN ISLAND WHEN IZZY came downstairs the next morning. He looked even more relaxed than he had the night before, leaning on the gleaming quartz counter, both hands wrapped around a mug of frothy cappuccino goodness while he listened intently to Izzy’s mom.
“I’m so glad you mentioned del Sarto! Most people have forgotten about him, his fame eclipsed by his contemporarie—Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael. But he should be included in the same breath.”
“Sì?”
Her mom nodded vigorously, and Izzy inwardly smiled. It was nice to see a sparkle in her eyes.
“Though Vasari and Browning weren’t particularly favorable to him,” she continued, “and de Musset characterized him as a cuckolded if sympathetic husband, del Sarto’s contribution to Italian mannerism coming out of the High Renaissance should not be overlooked.”
She spoke quickly while she fussed with some scrambled eggs, moving them heatedly around the pan with a spatula.
“He is a favorite, sì?”
“Sì.” She smiled at the brightly tiled backsplash, blissfully happy. “I remember when I saw a traveling exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts Boston when I was in high school. His Portrait of a Young Lady with a Book just absolutely blew my mind. The intimacy of the painting, the enigmatic smile. I stared at it until my parents made us leave.” She paused, her cheeks flushed as if suddenly self-conscious. She looked over her shoulder at Alberto. “I suppose I knew then and there that I wanted to study art history.”
Izzy’d never heard her mom speak so passionately about anything. It was mesmerizing. Enviable. The only thing that got Izzy this excited was discussing serial killers.
“And you did,” Alberto said, toasting her with a raised mug.
Her mom sighed, her spirits momentarily dampened. “Yes, back in Vermont. But I never got to Italy.”
“Life. It-a rarely goes the way-a we want,” Alberto said, then abruptly turned his head toward the doorway. “Ciao, Izz-ee.”
“Ciao,” Izzy said, though her accent sounded more like she was describing pet food than the delightful inflection Alberto used with the word. “How’s the English lesson going?”
She’d meant it good-naturedly, but her mom’s blush deepened as if she’d been reprimanded by her daughter. “I suppose we got a little sidetracked.”
“It was-a my fault,” Alberto said, hand pressed to his chest. “I ask-a the questions.”
“Plenty of time for lessons,” her mom said, regaining her composure. “What time is Peyton picking you up?”
Now it was Izzy’s turn to sigh. Not that she didn’t love her friend, but she’d been hoping to spend time alone with Alberto. Peyton had a way of hogging the spotlight, and Izzy never felt as if she could compete. “Noonish.”
Her mom arched a brow. “I thought I said morning?”
“To Peyton, that is morning.”
“Jeanine really shouldn’t let her do that,” she said, mentioning Peyton’s mom. There had been an unspoken hostility between the two women for years, some kind of parental one-upmanship that Izzy had never understood.
“Only on the weekends,” Izzy said, feeling the need to defend her friend.
“It’s Thursday.”
“If-a you please,” Alberto said. “Can-a we walk there early? Perhaps-a now? I would love-a to see the boats.”
“The slips are on the island,” Izzy explained. “We need to drive over the bridge to get there.”
Alberto’s face fell, a sad puppy. “Ah.”
“But you can walk down to the park and see the boats across the inner reach,” Izzy’s mom suggested. She was going all out to make sure Alberto felt no discomfort whatsoever.
And it worked. His smile was back, blossoming slowly across his tanned face. “I would like-a that.”
Izzy shrugged. “Sure.” There was nothing particularly interesting about Woodley Island Harbor or the boats in it, but she couldn’t exactly deny him this request on his second day. Besides, the park that skirted the waterfront was pretty, and judging by the sunbeams attempting to burn off the marine layer outside, it might actually be a lovely day. “I’ll tell Peyton to meet us.”
“Stupendo!” Alberto exclaimed as Izzy’s mom slid a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and sourdough toast in front of him. “To-a the both of you.” Then he dove into his breakfast as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
* * *
The sun had just succeeded in banishing the cloud cover as Izzy held the front gate open for Alberto. Yesterday, while he slept, the marine layer had only capitulated to the sun’s warmth for a few hours midday, but now the sun was winning a decisive battle. It was as if Alberto himself had pierced through the thick clouds, his megawatt smile and upbeat personality spreading sunshine in a gray world as easily as he’d inspired her mom’s bright mood. Which was poetic and silly, but as they walked down L Street, Izzy felt the warmth of a sunny day growing with every step.
“Your town issa very pretty,” Alberto said as they passed Miss O’Sullivan’s Victorian Bed-and-Breakfast around the corner from the Bell house. “Do you not think so?”
